Tag Archives: sonnet

the ghost of frank o’hara

20 Tuesday Aug 2013

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The ghost of Frank O’Hara leaves early

huge with desire. He sees through you, ogles

your ass while on the Metro; this fleshy

world! It’s what the living do that dazzles!

Only in poetry are ghosts obsessed

about panties. In novels it is briefs.

Plays call for jockeys. Textbooks might suggest

underwear. This language, ghosts claim, motifs

about buttocks and thongs. “We died before

thongs!” If you see a ghost gaping at you

in the changing room, say: “Bad Ghost!” I’m sure

it’s tough being behind the times, tattoos

and rings and whatnot being in right now

except for Frank who is always hip somehow.

sister vagabond

18 Sunday Aug 2013

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Who made this big O? Who milked all this cream
then got off? Which shaman brought the secret
of the orgasm back? Who brought the dream
of how to speak to the gods home? Read smut,
those hoarse orgasmic screams make this worship
look like child’s play. But I’ve been down on you
all night and you’ve yet to fling yourself back-
forth in the tall duffled grass. Sure, I knew
that not all prayers are heard. Between loadstones
and ghost loads both point to something beyond
grasp, but only one causes you to touch
the true divine. After gushing cum moans,
return and tell me, sister vagabond,
about what you once laughed off as nonsense.

genesis of lilith

15 Thursday Aug 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Feminism, Lilith, Poetry, sonnet

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The dull elk, all beast-eyed and slow, mounting

some sort of grotesque heifer, each nipple

as long as your thumb. She was their offspring,

or close to it. Dim-witted and docile.

Breeder. Eve. They say, “Lilith seduced her.

Lilith knew no shame.” In a world where man

was a limp failure, wouldn’t you? Lover

Of All The Flesh, She Of The Two-Heart Clan,

Girl With Locust Wings. Men who never knew

love will tell you the damnedest lies. Lilith

betrayed Eve — went down on Eve — sucked Adam’s

cum out — gagged it all down, then off she flew —

Bollocks. There is no bisexual myth

only the tale of the world’s first threesome.

cock’s crow

15 Thursday Aug 2013

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Dark One, I listen. A dun summer moon

rises, a gap, shun the sky, that space. Space

as the sun slips down into a wet June,

this son with a soul is always wet. Grace

was once a gun or a moth, that of air

but not in the air. Now none and nothing.

What son has a soul? and what sort of prayer

is this? The lascivious nun’s burning

faith. But not like faith. Switch to one shadow

and run halfway home. Daughters run. Daughters

know that the moon-dawn can still stun. Listen,

Dark One. I am a child of the cock’s crow.

The sky scares me for it is always her’s.

What’s left is noise. The cicadas have won.

last night i was so drunk

12 Monday Aug 2013

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Last night I was so drunk on something more
that I thought for a wild moment that I
had no needs. That I would go to the shore,
into the wild, and let the wild reply
to my song. I’d let the sea speak for me.
I am tired of language. Tired of speaking
to get my point across. For at the sea
I am a child: naked, sun-burned, dreaming
of ships. I shall build a lovely small shrine
just for myself out of sand and seaweed
and give up on language and fickle men.
I’ll walk naked along the wild shoreline,
singing new songs, and never be worried
about being drunk or sober again.

ghost hunger [rewrite]

07 Wednesday Aug 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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In this spirit’s world, this less than human
mouth goes down on you. Each chill, ghost fingers
unzip your fly, pull your knickers to one
side, while this ectoplasm tongue slithers
inside. How far out are we? Knuckles deep.
You suck all the air out of your lungs. Vast
forces are at work when twilight can’t sleep.
Delirium and the dead; an outcast
at your gate. This is beyond mingled breath.
Beyond love in the dead years. Do not die
just yet, my lover. Take me as I come
inside you. Then, a small cry, a small death.
Come like sick chaos, like a devil’s cry,
a blood fountain, a ghost hunger, bedlam.

scar [rewrite]

05 Monday Aug 2013

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I can trace the scars on her shoulders, thick
as my finger, grotesque tattoos that wrap
around each arm. I can kiss her lithic
muscles making her tremble. She could snap
my spine like that. She has killed thirteen men
like that. When I play with her softest part,
that part I will not name, that talisman
you call a lifetime of love, my dear heart
blooms. It’s not words but other’s secrets
that that I won’t share. When I light her lucky
strike she bucks, gushes like a volcano’s
blow, clamping my face in place. Her ringlets
tease my nose. I love her, from her forty
sword hacked scars to each of her missing toes.

NOTE:

This is a rewrite of a poem I posted back in March.

drink you dry

05 Monday Aug 2013

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And we are physical shape; to give voice,
to feel, to give pause, I brush out your hair
(no there was no hairbrush, only a choice
to comb my fingers through the empty air
where your hair might once have been). So tonight
I hope you will not be disappointed.
And since I’ve drunk from your gash of sunlight
I think I’ve become sad at your wasted
beauty. I have a purple bruise on one
ankle. True. I don’t know you as keenly
as I thought I did. I have grown remote
under my skin. No frenzy. Please listen.
Once I drank you dry but now I simply
gag on the rose left blooming in my throat.

wily weird sisters

05 Monday Aug 2013

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Don’t trust stories where boys, down in the kelp,
steal seal-skins from nude girls – they all end grisly.
Only a wily weird sister can help
romance a seal-girl. Go out to the sea
in a cow-hide boat. She will stand, murmur
love spells to the waves. The seal will surface,
then climb on board. A watery cat-purr
is sign of a selkie stirred. Seamless
is her fleshy skin, still, she wriggles out
as you cuddle her head and your sister
grips her hips, her mouth on her slit-pout,
licking up a storm. A seal-girl lover
will want you both, will soak your lips and chin.
That’s how you drive a seal out of her skin.

NOTE:

Stories and legends of sea spirits that live as seals in the ocean but have the ability shed their skin to become human on land can be found throughout Iceland, the Shetlands, the Orkneys, Northern England, Scotland and Ireland. The film The Secret of Roan Inish (1994) was based on such a myth.

sugar on the tongue

05 Monday Aug 2013

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In the candle light you fix your slack hair.
The rose oil you rubbed on each of your breasts
has been sucked off or was it the cold air
that made your nipples erect? What suggests
passion? The way each swollen lip attests
to our kisses? Your back still holds finger
nail marks, as if your skin made slight protests
during the heat of passion. This tender
night is like sugar on the tongue, sugar
that burns the blood. Sugar to slowly lick
off. Sit in your bath, another’s moisture
gathers on your bare skin. Let my tongue flick
everywhere, licking your sugar, making
you melt, climax like candle wax burning.